Who is Lorna Simms? You think about this, you puzzle and probe, and sometimes it's a joy, and sometimes it hurts. Sometimes you don't think about it at all - mostly when you're with Simms, flying, killing.

Maybe that's who Simms is. The moment. A place where you never have to think, never have a chance to reflect, never have to be anything other than laughter and kill-joy. But that's a selfish way to go at it, isn't it? Simms is her own woman, impatient, profane, ferocious, and you shouldn't make an icon of her. She's not a lion, not a war-god, not some kind of oblivion you can curl up inside.

A conversation you have, after a sortie:

"You flew like shit today, Laporte."

"That so, boss?"

Squared off in the shower queue, breathing the fear stink of pilots and Indus crew all waiting for cold water. Simms a pylon in the crowd and you, darker and shorter, feels like the raven roosting on her.

"You got sloppy on your e-poles," Simms says. "Slipped into the threat envelope twice."

"I went in to finish the kill, sir. Calculated risk."

"Not much good if you don't live to brag about it."

"Yet here I am, sir."

"You'll spend two hours in the helmet running poles and drags before I let you fly again." Simms puts a little crack of authority on the end of the reprimand, and then grimaces like she's just noticed the smell. "Flight Lieutenant Levi assures me that they were good kills, though."

You are pretty sure Simms hasn't spoken to Levi since preflight. You grins at your Captain, and Simms, exasperated, grinning back though (!), shakes her head and sighs.

"You love it, don't you," she says. "You're happy out there."

You put your hands on the back of your head, an improper attitude towards a superior officer, and hold the grin. "I'm coming for you, sir."

You're racing Simms for the top of the Second Fleet kill board. You both know who's going to win.